


Whiplash Boy Child in the Dark

by thereweregiants



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Cock Warming, Dom/sub Undertones, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Boot Worship, not a lot of substance y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23034577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereweregiants/pseuds/thereweregiants
Summary: Raihan doesn't lose often, but when he does he knows where to go.
Relationships: Kibana | Raihan/Nezu | Piers
Comments: 8
Kudos: 116





	Whiplash Boy Child in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> here we are, I guess. writing pwp about a kid's video game.   
> sometimes you wonder how you got to this place in life. oh well.
> 
> title adapted from the Velvet Underground's [Venus in Furs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iLQzaLr1enE)  
> written mostly to the Velvet Underground & Nico

The rattle of the key in Piers’ apartment door isn’t wholly unexpected.

He isn’t sure when he actually gave him a key - isn’t sure whether he did give him one at all or he just stole Piers’ and copied it - but it was probably when Leon was on one of his many, many winning streaks.

Piers’ apartment is his sanctuary. Here he doesn’t need to have his makeup on, doesn’t need to have his hair perfect, doesn’t have to adhere to his self-inflicted dress code of black and white and fuschia. He loves his Team Yell, he really does, but he always has to be  _ on _ for them, always has to be Piers the Leader, Piers the Rock Star, Piers the One Who Might Lose but Is Always True to Himself.

Or something like that.

Here, though, he has a closet to store all his sky-high platforms in, a soft couch that swallows him up, and plants near all the windows that bring a bit of life to industrial Spikemuth. No one can enter here except him, Marnie and - 

The door finally opens, and Raihan slouches in.

He’s still in his Gym uniform, all eye-searing orange and blue with that ridiculous hoodie of his. Everything about him from his height to his outfit to his Rotom phone buzzing around him are out of place here, against the muted colors and calm that Piers has created.

Piers doesn’t bother to look up from his book when he says, “Put that thing away.”

Raihan shoves the phone in a pocket carelessly, almost violently, before yanking off his Dynamax wristband and his gloves. Everything gets tossed in the pockets of his large hoodie, his movements jerky and clearly full of frustration. The hoodie itself comes off a moment later, but it’s draped carefully over the back of a chair rather than just thrown somewhere.

Regardless of mood, Raihan knows better. 

He paces around, running restless fingers over Piers’ things. Straightens the tea canisters in the kitchen, picks up a photo of Marnie and puts it down again, caresses the curve of a bottle of gin like he wants to crack it open.

Piers sets his book aside before taking a sip from the mug of tea steaming on the side table next to him. “Leon’s in Johto doin’ an exhibition match, so you can’t be pissed about him.” 

Raihan snaps his head to glare at Piers and bares his teeth, fangs flashing. Piers just blinks slowly and sips his tea.

The tension in Raihan’s broad shoulders is clear, the skintight blue and orange uniform top doing little to hide the bunched muscles. He spends another few minutes pacing and wandering, long fingers dancing over Piers’ possessions, before he finally turns, blue eyes staring out the window rather than at Piers.

“I got beat by a twelve year old,” he says morosely, and if it wasn’t for how he genuinely sounds upset, Piers might have laughed at the statement. Instead he takes another sip of tea, tilts his head to the side.

“Raihan,” he says, waits until he meets his eyes. “What do you want?”

A simple question, albeit one with layers for them. Raihan slips out of his shoes and socks, his bony brown toes looking strangely vulnerable against the handwoven rugs Marnie had gotten him, insisting that they warmed the place up. It’s not until he pulls his headband off and tosses it on the table, looking down and no longer meeting Piers’ steady gaze, that his decision is clear.

Piers sets his mug aside and uncrosses his legs, his narrow thighs spreading open. The space between is just wide enough for Raihan to slump on the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, lanky arms reaching forward to encircle Piers’ waist as he nestles his head in the bony curve from leg to hip.

Long, pale fingers work their way into Raihan’s hair, playing with the locs and nails scratching gently along the shaved sides. Raihan slowly begins to relax, leaning into the motions like a cat reluctantly being petted. 

Piers reaches out to the table next to him with his free hand, taps a cigarette out of the packet and lets it hang between thin lips. Raihan moves his face just a bit as he hears the spark of the lighter, just enough to free his mouth to speak.

“Marnie know you’re smoking those again?”

Fingers tighten in his hair, pulling tight until there’s the softest sound of pain that threads its way out from between Raihan’s lips. “Sorry,” he breathes out, nearly as quietly. Piers gentles his grip, once more stroking easily. 

“Talk to me,” he says, as he ashes his cigarette in an empty glass on the table.

Raihan doesn’t answer, tugs a hand from where it had been tucked behind Piers’ back and rubs it over the soft bulge in the front of his black leggings. Piers grips Raihan’s hair hard once more, pulls his head to the side until he’s forced to look up at Piers. “No,” he says gently, implacably. “None of that ‘til you talk.”

With a sigh Raihan nudges his head back into Piers’ long thigh, days’ end stubble catching at the thin fabric. He just breathes for a while, warm air moving easily across the white skin showing where Piers’ loose shirt has rucked up. 

“It was Leon’s brother’s friend, the girl,” he finally says. 

Piers makes a noncommittal sound. “I thought she was nice.”

Raihan huffs, fingers clenching on where they’re tangled in fabric. “It wasn’t just once, it was twice. In front of everyone.”

Piers stays quiet, still other than his fingers carefully moving through and around Raihan’s hair, and waits for him to continue. He does, bit by bit. 

As much as Raihan comes off as a self-centered braggart, he takes what he does very seriously and cares deeply for his partner Pokemon. “Poor Duraludron was just - smashed into the ground,” he says dejectedly. “Damn Dynamaxing.”

“ ‘S why I avoid it,” Piers says, smiling a bit at Raihan’s huff. He strokes a finger along Raihan’s cheekbone, watches his eyes close in response. “What else, eh?”

It’s the usual, brought out bit by bit. How Raihan holds on to his position with fingernails and bluster and an eggshell-thin veneer of ego protecting his fragile innards. He’s lost to Leon enough by now that he tends to crack instead of break, and Piers can put him back together with sticking plasters and careful touches. To be bested by a child, though, has him far more upset than usual.

“How do you do it,” Raihan mutters into Piers’ skin, having pushed his shirt up farther so he can nestle close. “How do you let them beat you and just. Keep going.” 

Piers stubs his cigarette out, blowing a last stream of smoke up towards the ceiling. “Just stop placin’ your value in what you believe other people think of you,” he says tiredly. “I don’t need to win every time ‘cause I know Marnie and the Team are there for me.”

Raihan turns his head looking up with an eye he probably means to be sly but just comes off as unsure and somewhat needy. “And what about me?” he says.

“What about you,” Piers murmurs, and this time when Raihan slips his clever fingers under the waistband of his leggings, he just shifts his hips to allow the other man to pull them down. They make it to his knees and stop, unable to go past his boots. Even in relaxation Piers still wears them, although these are lined with soft fabric and have curves instead of spikes. He feels naked without the pressure around his lower legs, more naked than his bare groin that Raihan is now nosing at.

Shuffling forward until he’s pressed up against the couch between Piers’ legs, Raihan tugs Piers a bit closer until he can lean down and take Piers into his mouth. The piercings along the underside of his cock clink almost musically against Raihan’s teeth, one of them catching on a fang for a painful half-second. Piers is soft - he’s tired from an exhibition match with Marnie and then having his calm evening interrupted with Raihan’s issues. There’s time enough for that later. 

Raihan likes this, though, Piers knows. When he can wrap his lips around the base and cradle Piers in his mouth fully, like a Growlithe carrying an egg. Looking down Piers can see a wide brown mouth opened wide and pressed close to his pale skin. Raihan’s lips will be swollen and ruddy by the end of this, but right now the only red is the tinge high in his cheeks. 

His eyes are closed, lashes long against the top of hard cheekbones. There’s a look of calm, almost of bliss on his face. When he’s here between Piers’ legs, he’s safe - no one to perform for, no one to expect anything of him. 

Piers languidly scratches his black-painted nails through Raihan’s hair and picks up his book. 

-x-x-x-x-x-

Piers is nearing the end of a chapter when there’s a quiet needy sound coming from his lap. He looks down to see a slight frown creasing Raihan’s smooth skin. Bright eyes look up and meet Piers’ own, asking for something that his mouth is too full to verbalize. 

Shifting in his seat carefully - those canines of Raihan’s aren’t just for show - Piers moves one of his legs forward. He’s wearing his favorite pair of boots tonight: all soft worn black leather that barely ever needs polished, it’s so supple and tailored to Piers’ lean legs. Inside is all cushioned fleece, shorn from a Wooloo that Marnie had as a kid. 

Raihan likes these boots too, though in a very different way. 

He moves a leg to the other side of Piers’, pausing as Piers says, almost as an afterthought: “No hands.” Raihan nods, before shifting his hips forward deliberately. His cock, obvious and hard in his uniform shorts, slides along the smooth curve of Piers’ boot. The silky nylon glides so nicely along the polished leather, back and forth, back and forth.

Piers’ fingers spasm on a page, crinkling it as Raihan moans around his cock. He sets the book aside, one hand threading back into Raihan’s hair as the other traces the curve of a cheekbone. Piers is quickly getting hard now, from the sound of Raihan’s panting and the feel of him humping his boot and the smell, the smell of his sweat and his precome smeared on his shorts and soaking through to Piers’ boot.

Long, strong fingers hold Raihan in place until he coughs and chokes, Piers having swollen too much in his mouth to take him all the way in. He breathes heavily and licks dry lips for a moment before swallowing Piers back down, more careful this time. 

That clever tongue of Raihan’s, always so quick with a barbed bon mot or shouted command, is just as talented wrapped around a cock. He traces up the thin skin covering the ladder of barbells underneath, swirls around the flare of the head, darts the tip of his tongue into the slit to lap up the clear drops that Piers is leaking. 

Piers, for his part, has his head tilted back, the long pale column of his throat working as he swallows. Both hands are on Raihan’s head now, implacably pushing him down, down until just at the edge of what Raihan can take before pulling back for a quick breath. Piers works Raihan down onto his cock over and over, using him as confidently as any instrument in his band. 

It’s not long before Piers is holding Raihan down for a few seconds longer every downstroke, until Raihan struggles just slightly for air before being let up. It’s the quiet, needy sounds that he makes humming around Piers that get him in the end, though. Noises that arrogant Dragon champion Raihan would never let anyone hear - anyone but Piers, that is. 

Piers comes with a deceptively soft sigh, his nails digging marks into the back of Raihan’s neck that will hopefully be covered by his headband. Raihan pulls back for air at the end, takes the last few drops scattered across his cheek and neck.

He doesn’t move, stays like that with lips a few bare inches from Piers’ softening length as he rubs himself against the boot between his legs.

“Come on, love,” Piers murmurs as he runs a thumb over Raihan’s cheek, gathering up the streaks of his come that he then pushes into Raihan’s slack mouth to suck clean. “Come for me.” 

Like his body finally recognizes the permission it was given, Raihan’s hips stutter through a few last strokes as he turns his head to bite convulsively into the thigh under his cheek. Piers hisses slightly in pain but just twines his fingers through Raihan’s locs as the man pants his way through his orgasm, breath coming heavily around teeth digging into rapidly reddening pale flesh. 

Raihan comes down from it - from all of it - slowly, blinking his way hazily back into reality. He licks apologies into Piers’ skin - he didn’t break through but there’ll be purple marks there for days. Piers doesn’t mind, really. It’s always nice to have souvenirs. 

He puts them both back together: pulling up Piers’ leggings, shifting his own shorts around so the damp spot will be easily covered by his hoodie, running a hand through his hair until it’s back to its usual carefully casual disarray. Raihan rebuilds his layers one by one, starting with his headband and ending with his hoodie and a sneer. 

Raihan stands in front of the couch, the two young men looking at each other silently. This is always the awkward time - when it could be more, when if one of them was willing to step outside of their respective personas and dare to be vulnerable they could  _ be _ something, and yet.

And yet.

Reaching down, Raihan brushes a stray lock of hair away, tucks it behind Piers’ ear. His thumb lingers on the sharp cut of his jawline, and when he pulls away Piers feels cold. He looks up at Raihan, at the small smudge of white he missed that dots his cheek like a beauty mark, and smiles a bit.

Maybe he’ll see it when he takes his next selfie. Maybe not.

Raihan turns and walks across the living room, a confident sway in his hips that wasn’t there earlier in the evening. He pulls his Rotom phone out of a pocket and tosses it in the air, where it activates and starts to buzz around him.

He glances back through the door as he’s about to close it. Piers isn’t even looking at him - he’s gone back to his book, curled in the corner of the couch like he’s done nothing more scandalous than drink tea all evening. 

Raihan keeps looking for a moment, then another, before turning and walking out into the Galarian night.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/thereweregiants)


End file.
